“They came right in through the window,” Calla told me, her voice tight. She winced as I pressed an iodine-soaked cotton swab to the cut on her cheek. “Right into my bedroom. There were six of them. I screamed for my guard and tried to run, but this big stallion with his face wrapped in bandages grabbed me. Then this other pegasus, a mare, hit me across the face with a horseshoe and told me to shut up.”
“What did she look like?”
“Purple. Like, really dark purple, coat, mane, and eyes, and these ugly scars across her face. And she had a blue bird over a thundercloud as a cutie mark.”
I grunted. “Nightingale. She runs the Weather Union.”
“You know her?” Calla asked, a hint of accusation in her voice.
“Just by reputation.”
She nodded. “She told one of the others to grab me. He did, but then my guard, Moss, burst in. He took one of them out before he could even react. The others let go of me in surprise, so I ran for the window. The mare, Nightingale, hit me again in the eye as I went past, and I landed on some broken glass, but I managed to limp away while Moss had them distracted. Then I made my way here.” She shook her head, exhaustion and stress clear on her face. “I didn't know where else to go.”
I gently pressed a bandage to the cut. “Well, at least you got here after they wrecked it.”
“Yeah.”
We lapsed into a mutual silence for awhile as I set about treating her injuries. There wasn't much I could do for the black eye besides patch some gauze over it, but I disinfected and bandaged the dozen or so cuts on her hide and splinted the leg she'd sprained in her landing. Her lovely gown had been shredded and stained with mud, so I tore it away and threw it in the trash while trying to think like a clinical, detached professional instead of a desperately lonely bachelor undressing a beautiful young mare.
Finally, I packed my supplies back into their first aid box. “That's all I can do, Calla. I'd suggest we get you to a hospital, but...”
“Yeah.”
I pulled my bottom desk drawer open awkwardly, and kicked the box into it. When I let go, it slammed loudly. I'd decided against standing my desk back up just yet, since the Union might stop by again and I didn't want to leave evidence that I'd been here.
My next step was sifting through the ruins of my office for a pen, ink, and paper. Once I'd collected them, I trotted over to my single window and started writing. I worked in silence for awhile, until Calla came to read over my shoulder.
“What is this?” she asked after a moment.
“Crs nrs.”
“Pardon?”
I spat the pencil out in mild annoyance. “Case notes.”
“Why?”
“I keep backups of all my notes, in case something goes wrong. If I turn up dead, a friend of mine knows where I keep them, and to turn them over to the cops.”
She frowned and sat quietly for a minute, letting me resume work. “That's very sad.”
I looked up at her, quirking an eyebrow.
“It's just... planning for something like that,” she explained hesitantly. “Caring more about your work than your life... ”
I shook my head. “I just want to make sure that anypony who kills me gets what's coming to them.”
She made a thoughtful sound and lapsed back into silence. I resumed my writing.
“But it's also rather brave,” she said awhile later.
“Hm?”
“You value justice. And the truth. You put your life on the line for them.”
I sighed. “I'm not some kind of hero, Calla. I'm just a working stiff. Some ponies collect garbage, some dig ditches, I catch criminals.”
“And that doesn't make you a hero?”
I snorted. “It makes me an idiot.”
She fell silent again, and I continued my report. I finished a few minutes later, having listed everything I'd learned so far, descriptions of everypony I'd talked to, and how I thought everything was connected. Then I went to the hidden compartment in the floor under where my desk usually stood, knocked it open with a quick stomp of a hoof, and drug out the fireproof metal box where I kept my backups.
“It's very full,” Calla observed.
“I've been doing this for almost a decade,” I replied. “Most of these are small cases: purse snatchers, muggers, pickpockets... ponies who swiped something valuable enough to their owners to warrant a visit to their friendly neighborhood P.I.”
“You've helped a lot of people,” she said softly.
I looked at her. She was staring at me with an odd expression on her face. She was frightened, hurt, and alone, and here I was, her knight in shining armor, tall and dark and ruggedly handsome...
“Calla... ”
Her lip trembled. Her face moved towards mine, and her good eye closed.
Every fiber of my being told me to go for it, to kiss her, to feel her warmth and hold her in my hooves and to see where things went from there. I felt myself moving to meet her, my mouth parting slightly. This was good, I told myself. This was right.
All I was doing was taking advantage of a young, terrified filly who didn't know what a mistake she was making.
Dammit.
I pulled away, shaking my head. She opened her eye and looked at me, surprise and hurt welling up inside her.
“Calla, this... this isn't a good idea.”
“Why not?” she asked, and I winced at the angry edge in her voice. “What, am I not pretty enough when I'm wrapped in bandages?”
“No-”
“Oh, maybe you like colts! Is that it?”
“Uh, no-”
“Or maybe,” she continued, her eye blazing with barely suppressed fury, “you're worried you'll catch some disease from fucking a battered old whore!”
I stomped a hoof with enough force to crack the floorboard, startling her out of her tirade. “Dammit, Calla, no. It's because right now, we're standing in the wreckage of my office, which was trashed by the same ponies that may have killed your brother, and because they might be back at any time to make sure they didn't miss anything. You can't run, and I can't take a half dozen roided-up pegasi with my back to a wall, okay?! So get ahold of yourself, dammit!”
She recoiled at my outburst, and with no small regret, I noticed the light of passion fade from her eyes. She looked around my office and nodded. “You're right. I'm sorry, Mr. Glass. We need to focus on what's at hoof.”
“Yeah,” I said with a heartfelt sigh.
A polite cough made us both look up. Standing in the doorway was Jeeves, tuxedo'd as ever, holding a letter in his mouth. He trotted over to me and deposited it with stately grace on the upturned front of my desk.
“From Mr. Air,” he explained.
“Air?” Calla asked. “Hot Air?”
I nodded. “He's sort of a friend. He's helping me arrange a meeting with Crown Jewel.”
“I know him.”
I looked at her in surprise. She smiled faintly. “He was a... regular customer. And he introduced me to Silver.”
“Huh,” I muttered. “He said he didn't recognize your name.”
“Odd. He knew me quite well. Perhaps he was embarrassed?”
Jeeves coughed. “Do you have a response for Mr. Air, sir?”
“Oh, yeah.” I unfolded the letter and scanned it quickly. “Emerald Park, ten o'clock. Will Crown be there?”
“Mr. Air did not say, sir, but he did receive a correspondence from Mr. Jewel shortly before dispatching me with this.”
I nodded. Well, this was an interesting turn of events. Hot Air had lied to me about knowing Calla, and this letter wasn't exactly specific. My instincts told me that something bad was about to happen. But Air was still my only ticket to Crown Jewel, and dammit, I liked the pony besides. I’d give him a chance before I filed him in with the bad guys.
“Tell him I'll be there.”